Exile
by Digolgrin
Summary: Separated from his squadmates in a botched air drop over Chernobyl, and cut off from all communications, Exile is left to ponder the events which led him to this place as he makes his way into the ruined city in an attempt to reunite with them and complete their mission. Would have been the mid-point of a continuation series.


**Author's Note:** I would like to begin by saying "Hello!" My name is Digolgrin, and I am... well, a bit of a migrant writer. I dabble in this stuff from time to time, and usually to fulfill very specific muses. I've never actually committed to any projects, save for two-one of which petered out and one that takes the form of a comic and thus will not show up here. So really, I wouldn't expect very many updates to this one.

Why is this labeled 'Chapter I', then, you may ask? 'Cause once upon a time-okay, two years ago-I thought of starting a continuation series for this particular show, as it had caught my interest following a late-night stroll through TV Tropes. This picks up midway through my plans for that, so if I had posted any prologue stories to this one, this would contain spoilers for them (like the fact that Muzzle can speak now), so... _oops,_ I guess? In any case, a 'Chapter II' does exist, though not in finished form, and it doesn't necessarily follow up on this prologue. It's more of an _in medias res_ thing, so bear with me should I get that far.

Let's just get this disclaimer out of the way anyway: I do not own _Road Rovers_ or any characters that appear here that also appear in the show. Some OCs do get namedropped here but they do not appear in this chapter. Unless you count 'talking Muzzle' as an OC, in which case, yeah, he probably is one.

Exile

Chapter I

Prologue: Father Russia

The muffled roar of jet engines has kept me on edge for hours now. I know we are headed for home-my home-and the world outside my shut eyes, once bustling with the banter of my comrades, has finally fallen silent, but still, I cannot relax. The mission, much like the destination, draws closer and closer with each passing second.

I have tried countless times to relieve this burden, but nothing has come of it, no daydreams, no sensations of relief from the cushions I sit upon, just discomfort, and a growing feeling that I will have to wait for relaxation of any sort.

This dawning realization is what finally brings me to open my eyes and assess my new reality. Around me, nothing seems to have changed. My comrades, most of them, anyway, have already departed for the tail end of the aircraft, most likely preparing for what is to come, no doubt. Empty seats and sealed bulkheads fill my vision. The only sights worth seeing outside the cabin windows are an ominous dark sky and the occasional pinprick of starlight. I do not need a watch to tell me that we will begin our descent soon.

I lean backwards in my chair and stretch all the limbs I can, preparing them for action. Lucky for me, they did not choose to fall asleep. However, I soon realize that I am still not totally alone.

A brown ear belonging to my collie comrade in the pilot's seat perks and swivels in my direction, as if confirming that the yawn it heard was, in fact, mine, before swiveling back. "Oh, hey, Exile," its owner's familiar voice follows. "Have a nice nap?"

"Not particularly, _tovarich._" I answer with a grumble. Comrade Colleen seems to understand, but I cannot tell with her concentration directed outward. "Where is comrade Hunter?" I ask, even though I already know the answer she will give.

"He left for the cargo bay after you fell asleep," she replies, finally tilting her head back to acknowledge my presence and confirming my suspicions. "We'll be entering Ukrainian airspace any minute now, so I've just been dialing back our speed. Don't wanna break our necks at Mach 1."

The mission rushes back into my mind. I lean forward in my chair and recall everything we had discussed just that morning at Headquarters for I know they will be put to use soon. "Good that I woke up, then, _da_?"

My paw plants itself in my face when I realize what I have just said. It is abundantly clear that my ability to not ask stupid questions still needs work.

Colleen's face spins towards me as though I had spoken all that in my native tongue. "...yes, of course," she laughs, as if she did not mind, before returning her attention to the instruments before her. "Don't want Big Bad Hunty to come and wake you himself, now do we?"

I chuckle at this. "_Da,_ especially not now."

The bulkhead to my right slides open with a clear _chunk_. "I heard that," croons the dulcet tones of my American leader, comrade Hunter, suited in full Rover armor and donning a deep green parachute harness. He carried two more of these in his right hand.

I sit up straight as an arrow while my comrade pilot giggles to herself. "Oh, don't mind him, Hunty, he just didn't get a good nap."

_Way to cover my tail_, I grumble.

Though Hunter now had his back to me, looking over Colleen's shoulder, I could tell by the way his tail was wagging that the remark had certainly amused him. "This late at night? I don't blame him, Collie," he chuckles. "We good to go?"

"Mmm hmm!" I hear her grunt. "We're in Ukrainian airspace, and I've just cut back on the throttle. Should be safe to jump by the time we get to Pripyat."

The American nods in approval, then tosses her one of the parachutes. I can hear her recoiling in surprise, awkwardly catching the harness in her arms with an audible grunt. "Alright then, gear up, cutie. Meet me downstairs once you've got everything set up."

"At least set it next to me or something..." I hear her grumble as the retriever walks away.

I don't have time to appreciate the humor of the situation before Hunter steps before me and offers his free hand. "Ready, Exile?" he inquires.

I look the American in his auburn eyes and take his hand in a firm grip. "Ready as you are," I answer.

The look on his face tells me that it would appear that I have flubbed my English yet again. But yet here, though he has ample time to correct me, his face goes from quizzical non-comprehension to amused acceptance just before he pulls me out of my seat. "Hah, works for me!" he replies, before handing me my parachute. We step out of the cockpit together, leaving Colleen to her work.

As the bulkhead sealed behind us, I slipped my arms through the shoulder straps and hoisted the container onto my back as we walked. It is an uncertain fit, but acceptable for now. Hunter's face, in the meantime, is all business. "Pack Two's hit the deck and is about ready to go in," he tells me. "It'll be our turn soon, so you might as well come down and join us." He smiles. "You missed the pre-mission snack," he rightly points out.

"Not hungry," I answer. It is all I can do to hide my nervousness from the American.

"Not like there's a pierogi shop in Pripyat," he replies as we reach the bulkhead leading down to the cargo bay. "You'll be hungry when we get out, I promise you that much."

I let loose a solitary laugh. "Prove it," I answer proudly.

He places his hand on the adjacent scanner and pivots around to face me once again. "Alright then, how's about a little wager?" he asks, eyebrow raised. "When we land, I'll ask if anyone's hungry. If I see you raise your hand, you get ration duty for the entire mission."

The American's little bet is not very impressive, but still I play along. "Surely you do not doubt my metalbolics?" I laugh, so sure of my boast-even as I catch my linguistic malfunction a second too late to correct it.

All Hunter can do is roll his eyes at me and groan as the door slides open. "It's _metabolism_, Exile," he explains, shooting me a short glare as he leads me into the cargo bay. "And just for that, I'm gonna raise the stakes; I catch you hungry _at all_, you have to buy me and Colleen dinner when we get back."

Still the American fails to impress. I chuckle as the thought of those two going out for a candlelight dinner crosses my mind, knowing full well that one catered by Shag would not lead to much in the way of romance. "You know that Shag does not accept payment, right?" I point out. "Toilet water is not what I would call the most exquisite of ingredients."

Hunter just laughs as he pats (slaps?) me on the back of my armor. "Exile, little lesson about capitalism: it's not just one guy that makes all the food, it's everyone that wants to make it," he explains. "Without competition, there's no reason to push yourself and make the best darn food you can."

"What is the point?" I press. Mother Russia just adopted its own version of capitalism not six years ago; I understand it as well as he does. Sort of.

"I'm not going to get Shag to cook for us," he answered, a smug grin plastered onto that golden snout of his. "We're going out to..."

Before Hunter can explain his master plan for forcing every bit of coin out of my pockets, I spot comrade Blitz wheeling himself out from underneath the Street Rover he and Muzzle would be sharing after the drop. "You will do no such thing," he barked, his ever-present Arnold Schwarzenegger impression boring its way into my skull. "Do not forget, Hunter; my jaws are more than capable of ripping that tail off of your American ass!"

Now this surprises me. Colleen is Pack One's only female, it is true, but never have I seen this Doberman willing to go to such lengths to gain her ever-elusive affection. Frankly, it should scare me, but I have known him so long that I can tell at a moment's glance that he does not have the will to back up his threat. Such is young Blitz's demeanor.

So I furrow my brows and give what is by now the only logical answer to any tushy-related Blitz suggestion: "Don't be weird boy; it is only bet."

Though I have never truly defused Blitz with these words-he is far too brash for that-it is Hunter who seems most emboldened by them. The look on his face is, dare I say it, smug, and very, very confident in his chances.

Now I realize that Blitz had, unintentionally, goaded me into accepting the American's bet. I make a mental note not to stand between Hunter and the German's lust for Colleen as I swivel around and jab a finger into the retriever's snout. "And you, you will see how the husky thrives on an empty stomach!"

Hunter gently nudges my pointer away as he chortles at my expense. "Okay, don't say I didn't warn ya!" he laughs, taking a few extra steps out of my personal space just to make sure we don't accidentally come to blows. "It's gonna get expensive."

The white mass of endless fur only known as Shag blubbers his way into the conversation at this precise moment, from the edge of the cargo bay. At this distance, it is impossible for me to tell, with any degree of fluency, what he is saying, but that is to be expected. It distracts Hunter long enough for me to find a new seat on the inboard bench, behind the Doberman, and to finish strapping on my 'chute, so I won't complain.

In the meantime, Blitz has returned to his work, poking and prodding his way around the motorcycle's engine. "Hmph. Can you believe this guy?" the Doberman complains to me, cocking his head towards Hunter and Shag's impromptu pep talk. "We're only, like, five minutes away from Chernobyl, and that big fuzzy baby picks _now_, of all times, to throw a hissy fit? Give me a break."

"_Da_, but who can blame him? Travel in and out of Chernobyl is not exactly common occurrence," I answer with a tired shrug. "And you are no shining example of courage yourself, Blitz. At least Shag admits when he is afraid."

"_Was war das?_" Blitz snaps back. "I'll have you know that unlike _die Amerikaner_, I know when to seize the advantage and throw it back in my enemy's face." He scowls at the mere suggestion of his cowardice.

"Oh, sure," cackles 'Muzzle', our newly sapient American Rottweiler fear factor, apparently freshly unstrapped from his asylum surplus handcart, leaning against the wall some distance away from the German. "Then why do you scream like a little girl every time something doesn't go your way? You're diggin' yourself pretty deep there, Blitzy."

Blitz's attempts at dodging the issue at hand-stammering, pointer finger raised as he tries to find the right words-are just barely enough to begin easing the tension in my heart. Eventually, he gives up and plants his armored palm on his snout with a sigh, finishing his work soon after. "Oy! I think I liked you better when you were just a mad dog."

"Still as mad as mad can be, baby, and proud of it!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot our stern-faced leader as he walks away from Shag and fingers his headset. Just as Blitz said-it is almost time to begin our mission. "Alright, guys, bring it in!"

_I'd just settled in, too,_ my thoughts grumble as I remove myself from the bench and join Hunter in his little 'football' huddle by the cargo ramp. Blitz and Muzzle obediently follow, the latter literally vaulting over Blitz's car to get to us, and Shag, well, just stands outside the circle, so he doesn't smother us with that sheepdog coat of his.

Colleen would probably have joined us by this point, but since she is needed in the cockpit for but a few more minutes, I can only imagine the headset would be transmitting everything Hunter would say up to her.

"Okay, you guys know the score from here on out," the American begins, taking time to look in each of our eyes. "You catch any wind of Parvo, his troops, or, Sirius forbid, the Renegades, you do whatever it takes to stop them. We can't let them take any fuel rods out of the country; if there's anything worse than a nuclear bomb, it's knowing that the stuff they're made out of is in the wrong hands."

My confidence, as usual, was soaring. Hunter after all is our alpha, and had asserted himself as such over the course of many battles. Unlike Blitz, I dared not question him, even though certain nationalistic instincts would scream at me to speak up.

"Oh, I think I'm going to enjoy this," Muzzle snarls, teeth bared. "Just make sure you guys leave enough for me, I'll sort 'em out!"

To my utter surprise, it is Blitz who chimes in after that, an equally toothy smile plastered on his face. "We will see whom leaves enough for whom, muzzle-boy!"

"Glad you two at least have some fighting spirit," Comrade Hunter states before clearing his throat and producing our headsets and a bottle of potassium iodide pills, our anti-radiation countermeasure, for each of us from his armor pockets. "Now, don't forget to take your salt pills before you enter the city. I don't want anyone getting an extra tail on this job."

"Sirius knows Comrade Yeltsin would not appreciate thatski," I chuckle, taking my bottle and headset in hand and being sure to gulp down one of the pills straight away. "Cute, but I do not think we need two Blitzes."

"Hey!"

"_Oi, if you boys are done with your little pow-wow, can we get on with the jump?_" Colleen's voice crackles through the intercom. "_We're approachin' the DZ now; break it up and I'll get the ramp._"

So we do, albeit without much fanfare-we share our pre-mission howl as a team, and to do so without Colleen would be breaking tradition. At the same time, the loading ramp unlocks and begins its descent, the air rushing past our ears as the cargo hold pressure equalizes itself with the world outside. Everything said from here on out I can only hear through the headset radio. "_Cool! Thanks, Colleen_," the American confirms, giving a thumbs up in the direction of the cockpit.

"_Be down in a bit,_" she affirms.

Finally, our mission has arrived. While Muzzle and Shag get to work prepping our vehicles, to be dropped on the Sky Rover's second pass, Hunter commands Blitz and I to step out onto the ramp and check to make sure no one is around to spot us.

Not that this is a concern, of course. Even as we look down upon the land, the eerie darkness below reminds me-reminds Blitz as well, I would hope-that the world below is one of perfect desolation. There is not a light to be seen for miles; the only reason the ground is even illuminated is the silver moon hovering in the sky.

It is almost as if the Earth itself is dead. "_Такие отходы,_" I mutter to myself. "Such a waste..."

"_Comms check; how we doin', Rovers?_"

"_Alpha Six, Muzzle, hear ya loud and clear, Hunter!_"

"_Rah-rah rah, ruff-ruff!_"

"_...O-kay, I'm gonna take that as a yes._"

Now it is my turn to report. "Alpha Four, Exile, copy you, Alpha One," I rattle off.

"_Alpha _Drei,_ Blitz, _bereit, fertig und willens_!_"

"_Ready and able, gotcha. Alpha Two, do you read?_"

"_Missiles inbound!_"

"_Alright, that's... wait, what'd you just..._"

"_SAM launch, dead ahead! I... bloody hell, I... I can't get back to the cockpit in time, _move!"

Colleen barely has enough time to finish her sentence before all hell breaks loose. I am still on the edge of the ramp when _something_ strikes with the force of a battering ram, knocking out our lighting and throwing me off balance. At the edge of my hearing, I can hear one of Blitz's signature screams fading into the blackness, but it is not until the second fuselage-rattling explosion pierces my ears that I discover why.

...As I realize I am not actually on the Sky Rover anymore, but rather a Cano-Sapien Siberian Husky-sized meteor hurtling towards the Ukrainian countryside at over two hundred kilometers per hour. What little glimpses I can obtain of the Sky Rover are covered with flames and smoke; I cannot make out any further detail.

_This is just perfect,_ is the first-and last-comprehensible thought I have during the whole experience. Everything else is but unusual and controlling panic and confusion, consistent with the voices shouting in my ear.

The last thing I can coherently understand before it all cuts to black is Comrade Hunter pleading with Colleen to stay with the plane while he leads the evacuation, to little to no avail.

The next thing I know, I find myself with a face full of dirt. My entire body, my snout especially, is aching, as if I had just left the gymnasium at Headquarters, but as my senses gradually reboot themselves and I slowly, but surely, return to my feet, I come to realize that I may be, perhaps, the luckiest husky alive.

Or, to look at it another way, I am lucky _to be_ alive.

My legs are still wobbly, but they hold balance well enough to allow me to examine my surroundings. The first thing I notice is that I have been unconscious for much of the night; it is now daytime, and a large stratus cloud seems to have moved in, blocking out the sun and preventing me from making an accurate assessment on the time. After that comes particulars; it would appear that I have landed in the forests to the west of the city, if my patchy memory of the Sky Rover's flight path is to be believed. Blitz should have managed to find a clearing somewhere, but if he has, he is unusually silent about it.

As soon as I regain stable footing, with the help of a nearby tree, I key my headset and open my mouth to speak, mustering my best English in the process. "Alpha, this is your comrade, Exile. I am fineski, but I have landed west of the city and cannot join you for at least half-an-hour. Please respond. Over."

I am met with static in reply. I try again, repeating the message in Russian this time to authenticate my identity, and, again, receive nothing. There is a short burst of what seems like comprehensible language, but I realize it is not more than just white noise and disregard it, instead switching frequencies to Pack Two's channel and sending a variant on my last message. "Beta, this is Alpha Four, Exile. I am fine, but I have landed west of Pripyat and cannot raise Alpha One. Please advise. Over."

When again static tears through my ears, I tear my headset off to make sure it is working-only to find that it is, indeed, broken; the receiver seems to have been destroyed somehow. I almost curse Professor Hubert for designing such flimsy equipment before I finally look down and notice that I have been standing in a Rover-shaped impression in the forest floor this entire time.

I examine my harness and find that I had not even pulled the ripcord to my parachute when I fell. That would explain the body ache and the pain in my snout, but it only leaves one explanation for my survival-my armor.

If I read the technical briefings correctly, our armor is designed to protect against impacts at speeds up to terminal velocity, while keeping our insides where they should be. However, as I should be aware by now, it is _not_ designed to _withstand_ them. It is purely a contingency measure to ensure that we can survive an instance where we are unable to break our fall for any reason. Without it, however, we are vulnerable and, dare I say it, basically naked.

But what choice do I have now? With or without, I must finish my mission. It is, after all, what Hunter would have wanted me to do.

Once confronted with this truth, I sigh and undo my harness straps, letting it, and all the loose pieces from what is left of my armor, drop to the ground. No one is around to hear me complain, so I keep my snout shut as I do the same with the rest of the armor, including the pale blue undersuit, and tuck it and the parachute next to the birch I had just used minutes prior, marking the trunk with one swipe of my claws for future reference.

Underneath the armor is our urban combat attire-a dark short-sleeved shirt and long, if baggy, combat pants, reminiscent of that worn by American military recruits. Though we wear the armor casually more often than not, this outfit is the first thing we slip on beforehand, just in case we need it.

The one thing it lacks, of course, is decent footwear, but I do manage to salvage my pill bottle and slip it into my pockets, so at least there is some silver lining.

Without the sun, I need to get down on my hands and knees and use smell to find my bearings, but it is not long before the distinct smell of dead civilization takes hold. I take a final look back at my gear to commit the marking and the tree to memory, before taking a deep breath and setting out for Pripyat on foot.


End file.
